


i wanna feel you in my bones

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: These little touches, these definitive strokes are never enough.[ To summarize, here lies the evidence of five times that Vera Bennett and Joan Ferguson fucked. ]
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	i wanna feel you in my bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLexFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/gifts).



> Title happens to be lyrics from Meg Myers' "Desire." Such a great song that I recommend. 
> 
> Originally, I posted this fic on Tumblr for the "five times fucked meme." Here's the context of said meme: "Send 'five times fucked' for a drabble about five times our muses fucked (not made love... fucked)." 
> 
> This little number was a birthday gift to my dear friend, Lexie. We're forever marinated in vinegar lol. Thank you for providing me with some inspiration; you're a great friend and a wonderful writer. Cheers, mate! x

**i.** In her palace of justice veiled in perfect darkness save for the sweeping floodlights projecting from beyond the courtyard, your cheek nudges the wall, close enough to the window overlooking the concrete underground.

Denied a kiss, you want more from this. Pushed against the cool and clammy brick, her breath graces the shell of your ear. Swiftly, she tugs down the zipper to your skirt, allowing her palm to rove across the heat of your cunt. Her fingers fill and stretch you; you love the burn, even relish it. You fuck quickly, vigorously, as if it’s never enough.

Hips meet hips. Hers cover your narrow ones. Her trousers burn your skin, eliciting bittersweet friction. You love the fullness of her body pressing against you, the warmth radiating from her body despite her icy persona. She falls onto you like a shadow. Your eyes drift down to her hand, her wrist, the fingers of a cellist or a killer; you’re never sure which. You shatter into a billion pieces, a pretty tea pot come undone.

After you cum, you lick her fingers clean and thank her for it.

 **ii.** The desk is your marital bed. Here, you sacrifice all inhibitions, but the scratches etched along the curve of your back always remember. Maybe this makes you weak, even malleable. However, the way she fucks you so good leaves you breathless every time.

Scrutinized, held under glass, she observes your frantic movements as she touches you with machine-like precision. Briefly, her thumb roves along the underside or your jaw, forcing you to maintain eye contact. Your breasts and your ass bounce from the velocity of her thrusts, as if she’s made to claim you.

“Well, aren’t you the Governor’s little whore?”

You loathe her patronizing tone. Truth be told, her demeanor goads you. Gets you inexplicably wet.

 **iii.** This time, you assert yourself. In the boiler room, you take control of your pleasure. The handcuffs give you back your power. Still, she occupies the uncomfortable chair as a veritable throne. She’s surprised by your assertiveness, but revels in the switch. A lascivious purr ensues.

You taunt her with your image, your legs spread, and your fingers delving past the mess of curls towards your soaked center. You fuck yourself for her though you hold off from finishing. Tonight, you want to see her unravel, just as she’s taken you apart and dressed you to her liking.

“I’m going to fuck you,” you announce, exhilarated and unabashed. It’s a privilege to admit that she allows you to service her.

For her, you bring yourself to your knees. My, oh my, you’re eager for a sacred taste. You worship her thighs, the altar of her sex. Greedily, you steal a glimpse, your mouth upon her cunt, your tongue lavishing her swollen, throbbing clit with your undivided attention. 

Joan is a habit you can’t afford to quit.

 **iv.** Under the night’s veil, you appear at her cell. Coyly, with the boldness of a naughty schoolgirl, you creep into her cage, her eminent domain. You seek to relieve yourself of that building, mounting tension.

Rising from the ashes. a vengeful shade is cast. Such a firm, tyrannical grasp could destroy you. You bruise easily; she grips your thighs, your bum, smacks your ass just the way you like. Reverent fingertips trail across the expanse of your birdcage ribs. With her hand around your throat, you pledge your allegiance to a burning, war-torn flag. One of these days, she’s going to kill you.

Straddling her lap atop this uncomfortable cot, the violence and tenacity of her thrusts leave you soaked. You ride her fingers until you’re seeing stars. Her fingers are coated in you and with a spasm, you clench around her. You cum in the palm of her hand, still irrevocably hers.

Despite sporting the crowns, she still owns you. You feel poisoned though you keep coming back for more. You cannot pin all the blame on her even if you want to – _need_ to. God, you want to.

Although you’ve hardened, you still have your heart. Cheeks burning cherry red, you leave behind your dignity.

 **v.** Tested and bested, she won’t lay this to rest. Fever dream or reality, you can’t quite make up your mind. Here in your home, Joan has a way of haunting you. Stirring in your bed, your breath catches – hitches – as if the mere act is comparable to strangulation.

Maybe this is the annihilation she promises. Being hanged, tried, and buried alive has changed her. She settles on top of you. You experience the full weight of her presence. Your leg hooks around her waist, desperate to feel her inside you. Your hands caress her back before you seize her from behind. The tenderness could be a ruse and you hate the way you’re cast full of doubt. These little touches, these definitive strokes are never enough.

Sweating and shivering, your thighs quiver as you ride out your high. You hear her thunderous heartbeat and there’s no denying that she relishes the way you fall apart, but you acknowledge the history between you both. In the predicament of Faustus and Mephistopheles, you miss the old days, the glory days, the days neither of you can go back to.

She has dismantled you, torn you asunder, until you were forced to put together the pieces of yourself.

Although she doesn’t kill you, you feel your breath leave you and it’s no different from the soul leaving the body. Not every detail is necessary, but you covet it all in your memory. You hold her in a warped rendition of Pietàs until she pulls away, until you’re alone again, and the weight drags you down.

How many times has she come to you in your nightmares and foolish longings? 

Maybe she was never here to begin with, you rationalize, studying the tangled mess of sheets and the dent in the mattress beside your splayed body. 

Your dreams always end in this way: _alone_.


End file.
